


He Just Up and Ran Away (So I’m Never Going Back)

by cuttlemefish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: High-class escort AU, Inspired by a Music Video, M/M, Pole Dancing Yuuri, Viktor with a K, angst with happy ending, jealous viktor, lilia is a madame, they are in love, viktor doesn't know yuuri's hired, yuuri doesn't want viktor to know he's hired, yuuri has sex with other people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-23 11:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11401812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttlemefish/pseuds/cuttlemefish
Summary: The back of the silver card readsFantasies by Lilia, and Viktor lets his thumb brush over it with intense scrutiny. The name on the front winks at him with the glint of danger: Alex. “Oh, Yuuri, are you cheating on me?” Viktor whispers to himself, crumbling on the bed with the onslaught of a panic attack. Yuuri is Viktor’s everything; the first boyfriend he’s had in almost a decade, after years spent too busy lost between circuitry and code. But then he notices that there’s a stack of similar looking cards that readCeleste,Adrian,Robert,Michael, andYuuri. All of them readFantasies by Lilia.Or, welcome to the story in which Viktor discovers his boyfriend Yuuri is a high-class escort who takes on different identities and lives for different clients, including Viktor, who thought he was saving a stripper by putting a ring on his finger.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a Nonnie on Tumblr (and Michael Jackson's Who Is It, or the most aesthetic video no one has heard of). Nonnie, cheers! This one's for you, even though I'm not sure this is at all what you signed up for when you sent that ask with Guys My Age by Hey Violet for inspiration. 
> 
> Also, comments help fics live and grow. I'm just putting it out there, but your life is your own, you know.

**Prologue**  

Yuuri, like any recent graduate, had been desperate for a job. Maybe, though, too desperate. 

“My job is to create fantasies; you’re just another canvas,” Lilia told him, leading him up a long set of narrow stairs. At the very top, she handed him a robe before shoving him into the arms of two women dressed in hospital uniforms the color of ash. He noted that they smelled like clinical soap, something expensive with enough chemicals to strip the top layer of his skin. Lilia would’ve probably relished the opportunity to peel away his skin, paint him new from the inside out. The two women pushed him into a steaming shower, scrubbing him until he was red and raw, before switching into iced water, saying, ‘it’s good for circulation,’ like the suppleness of his skin was worth the same as the gold mask resting over his face.

It hadn’t felt like a bad job then, not with a masseuse digging into his shoulders.

“Just relax,” she had whispered, fingers slowly moving down his back until they could knead at the curve of his lower back. When she had dipped her fingers into the crack of his ass, he had taken in a deep breath, looking at her from over his shoulder in permission. He'd sighed, little puffs of contentment as he arched his back and closed his eyes to roll his hips back. “Clients don’t like it when the Service is tense.”

When she was done (and he was relaxed, stretched and clean), she’d helped him turn on his back, and a second person had taken over then, painting his face for hours. It was strange not to be able to dress himself. There was a moment where his mind floated away from his body to admire how foreign hands pulled up the thin, lace underwear, non-descript, tight and black, no garters only because that’s what the Client had requested. The clothes, too, had felt like taking on someone else’s skin. Lilia had been the last person he saw that first day. She handed him a silver card: _Celeste._

He will always curse the first time he took a silver card.

It had felt heavy in his hand, thick and powerful with the name embossed deep, like it was digging into the metal for soul. (None of these characters ever have lives or dreams. They’re cold and empty, like metal, just pretty to look at and collect.) He hadn’t known what working with Lilia entailed, but he had been young, eager to wear something low-cut and tight to get the attention of someone that could handle him better than the ex that had barely known how to hold down his hips to the dip of a broken mattress.

He'd taken the silver card, feeling the weight on his palm.

“Real silver, adds a touch of class,” Lilia said. “You give that to the Client.”

He nodded, “do I take it back at the end?”

“Don’t worry about the logistics,” she told him, “you just dance and spread your legs on that bed and you’ll get your cut.”

 _Celeste_  will always be a strange job. He doesn’t dislike it, not even the first time, considering the Client doesn’t touch him, only watches.

He tightened the belt of his black rain coat, drawing attention to his waist. He'd barely recognized himself when he caught sight of himself on the mirror. Lilia walked in first with a group of four women. Their heels clicked on the marble floor of a 19th Century Chateau, complete with era furniture. The mirror alone looked like something he might have imagined in a Rococo dreamscape. His fingers touched at his face – how soft it looked, a complete contrast to the dark eyebrows and thick mascara and pushed-back hair. The contacts in his eyes had been gray. They had hurt and his eyes had threatened to water, like his body hadn't been been sure if it wanted to cry.

A man wheeled out with an oxygen tank attached to his chair. He spotted Celeste and Lilia pulled him over. Celeste stood straight, lips straight as he stared down at the man and pulled from his pocket the silver card. A wrinkled hand took it, before its owner turned to his right and nodded. Three tall men stepped forward, each with two black suitcases.

Lilia had smiled, each one of her girls taking the cases, “a pleasure doing business with you. Celeste, show Mr. Wilson an enjoyable time; we’ll be ready for you back at headquarters.”

.

_**Three Years Later** _

Yakov Feltsman is the contracting agent.

He sends a list that's inordinately long, with details that fill a manuscript. Yuuri peers through it, lounging in Lilia’s perfume room as he sips white wine. Even though Yakov is the contracting agent, he’s bringing in a Service for someone else. Mr. Viktor Nikiforov is the real Client. There’s even a picture attached to the file. Years of this type of work have taught Yuuri that most of his clients are under the strange belief that escorts look through long stacks of files and pick one out: _This one_ , they say, _I’m so eager to fuck this one!_ Maybe, he thinks, it makes them feel better about the fact that they’re paying for the privilege of touching living art. It’s still strange, though, the men and women who know so well that Lilia is the real artist are so bent on also believing that Lilia would give her subjects any type of choice in her artistic vision.

Viktor Nikiforov is a decent height at 5’11”, with thin blond hair the color of ashes and eyes cold like frozen water. He’s certainly the most handsome of his clients, and probably the most famous.

Viktor owns a technology company, the type that makes phones, dabbles in clean energy, and keeps records of people’s search engine questions. He owns a data center, the highway to 30 percent of the Internet, and, apparently, a poodle farm for rescues that he visits weekly with his inseparable companion Makkachin. Viktor has also been otherwise alone for the last ten years, working on some type of Artificial Intelligence unit that will finally finish the automation of his entire New York penthouse. A veritable workaholic, the description reads, he has a fragile ego that he feeds with success and charity. _If he likes you, he will shower you with presents._ _The job will easily pay for itself and a bonus._ It’s hard to believe, but he has heard stranger. People come to Lilia with all types of kinks, after all. This, though, looks more like a dating profile than an escort wanted ad. Yuuri has never had so much information.   

“His loneliness is catching up to him,” Lilia says, explaining that Yakov is a good friend and this is a very special favor. Usually, Lilia wouldn’t take on high-profile individuals, especially without their knowledge. It’s a recipe for disaster, or a public relations nightmare, but Yuuri is plain in his beauty. He can blend. He’s also a perfect description for someone Viktor’s been pining for ages: Apparently, Viktor caught sight of _Michael_ at some party in Los Angeles. He remembers that orgy rather well, having had body paint stuck on his body for days. “He’s been sneaking into a strip club. Yakov is worried someone could figure out who he is, so he thinks it’d be best if he was entertained by something, someone a little easier to vet. What’s wrong, Katsuki? You’re looking constipated. I would think you’d like him; if you don’t, I can give the job to Chulanont. He’s very handsome and this particular job pays double what we’re used to...”

“No, I can do it fine, it’s just. The card says Yuuri,” he whispers, thumb rubbing the word over and over. He’s spent so many days pretending to be other people, taking on a different face and new name that he barely remembers that this is his name. It looks strange printed on silver. “I’m not sure how I feel about using my real name.”

She rolls her eyes, “for all that it’s your name, it’s still not you, so I don’t see what it matters.”

Lilia isn’t _exactly_ wrong, except for the part where Yuuri and _Yuuri_ begin to fit together like a venn diagram, joined in the middle by details too difficult to rip apart: The Yuuri on request is a stripper and an escort (check), who will play the part of damsel to Viktor’s hero. He does look just like Yuuri (because there’s no other choice, even if there’s at least three other men on staff that fit the description of dark eyes and dark hair), though a little softer, a little less refined, a little bolder (check). The Yuuri created just for Viktor Nikiforov “poledances like a hurricane, gives head like a porn star, and rides dick like a jockey.” It’s a crude request, but he’s seen worst. This is a fantasy, after all. It’s only for one night. Yuuri can be all those things to one person for just one night.

(Lilia doesn’t tell him it’s just for one night.)

“So, Mr. Feltsman is the one that takes the card then?” Yuuri asks.

“That’s right,” Lilia says, and dismisses him to get ready. “I’ve assigned Mila to help you get ready this time. I think you two work relatively well together, not to mention I trust she’ll do a good job. She has good judgement. Tell her to use the pharmacy brand concealer. It wouldn’t do for you to be sweating off the Chanel while trying to play a hooker. And don’t even think about a massage. This needs to feel and look realistic. He’ll want to stretch you out himself, or you’ll have to do it, if it’s been that long for him.”

Yuuri nods, “yes, Lilia. I’ll tell her. Don’t worry.”

(Lilia, naturally, worries.)

.

Yuuri doesn’t have an escort team this time. It’s a discrete operation and Mila drives him personally to Viktor’s penthouse. The building is owned by Viktor as well, and it’s eighty floors of research and development teams carefully curated from the world's leading universities, all made to converge under a single roof. Yuuri has researched for hours.

Before he walks out of the car, Mila checks him one more time, reaching inside her pocket for lip balm to dab a bit on his lips. “Too chapped,” she says, huffing. She’s just as much a perfectionist as Lilia. “I said drink _less_ water, not dehydrate yourself. His kink’s poor, not cracked lip Chris dying in the desert.”

“Hey, you said drink less water and that’s exactly what I did,” he jokes, slipping out of the car, “it’s not my fault you weren’t specific. Have the driver on standby?”

“Oh my god,” Mila gasps, reaching over the passenger side to pull him back by the loops of his jeans. Yuuri stumbles back, hitting the seat hard. “Yuuri, your ass cheek is showing. It’s like coming out from that hole like the love handles on the Pillsbury doughboy. I told you the jeans were too tight. You ripped them. And you’re not even wearing underwear. Oh my god. Okay, okay, maybe I have something back here that we can use instead—”

“I am, though, wearing underwear. Was I not supposed to?” Yuuri whispers, panicking. It’s a serious offense, per Lilia’s rulebook. The art of wearing (or not) undergarments, including the type and color, are as important as knowing the language of flowers was in the 1800s. Lilia had drilled that into everyone's head. Yuuri has never ignored instructions on underwear; he's not sure he's heard of anyone doing it either. “You gave me a thong. Was I not supposed to keep on the thong?”

“The thong was only to protect your junk while I oiled your abs!” she reminds him, biting on her knuckles. She had made it clear; it’s foggy in Yuuri’s memory, but he must admit he heard her. Yuuri feels guilty. They’re good friends. Mila and Yuuri work well together because Mila makes Yuuri feel like he should still have modesty left. The less jaded part of him appreciates it, but that comfort and familiarity has now made him sloppy. “Lilia is going to kill us. We followed, like, zero of her instructions. Zero. Oh my god, Yuuri! I don’t want to be demoted to masseuse again! I can’t keep doing prep work. I just can’t. I still can’t look Phichit in the eye.”

“It’s fine,” Yuuri tells her, resting both hands on her shoulders. He squeezes gently, whispering, “we’re fine. I’m supposed to be a stripper, right?”

“Yes, but this is a fancy corporate party. You’re supposed to be crashing the party, not smashing it with your big ass,” she says, almost on the verge of tears. “Oh my god. What if he’s not a butt man?”

“The instructions said he was a butt man,” Yuuri scoffs, obviously taking offense as he reaches under his seat to pull out the file. He fans the pages, “if we start doubting the file, we might as well call the whole thing off!”

When there’s a knock at the window, they both jump. There’s a gruff, older gentleman staring at them. He’s dressed in an impeccable suit, hair thinning at the top. This is Yakov. Yuuri recognizes him from Lila’s photos. There’s something at the corner of his eyes – in the wrinkles – that screams familiarity. Yuuri has seen this man age in photos. Mila rolls down the window.

“You the kids Lilia sent?” he asks, stretching out his palm.

Yuuri immediately hands over the silver card, shuffling only marginally to pull out the metal strip from where it was trapped in his pocket, “yes. I’m Yuuri. Uh, sorry I’m late, Mr. Feltsman. I just had a wardrobe malfunction.”

Yakov scoffs, pocketing the card. He stretches his hand out again. Yuuri finally realizes he’s trying to shake his hand.

“Figures,” Yakov sighs, squeezing Yuuri’s hand, “don’t worry. I have clothes for you. I figured Lilia would send you in one of her little fantasy get-ups, but I told her, this isn't Silicon Valley. There's a reason Viktor prefers New York. I told her exactly what I didn't want and I see, as per usual, she didn't listen to a word I said: What’s this one called, Kinky Boots meets Street Walker Chic?”

Mila frowns, “Actually, yes, thanks. Mr. Feltsman, we pulled together this look based off everything you wrote in that file. If you’re going to change his clothes, I need to park so I can document what he’s going to wear. Lilia takes her work very seriously. If he comes back wearing something we didn’t clear, she’ll fire us—”

“So, you want her to see him next to the President of China wearing ripped jeans? Did I understand that correctly?”

“The President of China is here?” she squeaks, looking over Yuuri’s clothes with a crestfallen expression. Yuuri looks down at his thighs straining to be free. He looks over to Mila, desperate. She sighs, “Okay, okay, well, lead the way. I’ll just pray my car doesn’t get towed.”

“I’ll take care of it if it does,” Yakov scoffs, opening Yuuri’s door. When he sees Yuuri’s wardrobe accident, he slips off his coat, dropping it on Yuuri’s shoulders to cover him up. It's an act of kindness Yuuri won't soon forget. “I see Lilia sent the real deal, at least. How often do you pole dance, kid, or is that offensive to ask?”

Yuuri beams, “Not at all, Sir. The pole is my special skillset. All my clients request it, so I get a pretty good workout at least a handful of times a week.”

Mila follows them both, cursing to herself as she texts Lilia the news that Yuuri is about to get a second make-over. She prays that she won’t be fired, or worse, demoted back to masseuse, and wonders why Yuuri is so calm. Usually, off-script presentations send him into a spiral of anxiety, but the Yuuri relaxing against Yakov Feltsman's hand seems to be completely at home, like he's decided  _Yuuri_ needs more Yuuri to succeed. When she sees the simple suit and plain white button-up, she thinks maybe this is why Yuuri is such a coveted professional. He owns his second skin like he's reinventing himself each time. And, this time, it's no different as he ties the ugly, pale blue tie into a half-windsor, just a little crooked. "To show inexperience," he winks at Mila. 

 **TBC – Okay, so, next chapter, they’re going to bang.**  

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**  

“So, if you knew it was wrong, then, why did you do it?” Phichit will ask him one day, and Yuuri won’t know what to answer. He’ll look down at the ring blinking from his finger – a wink into oblivion, like the flash of a star turning him blind. It should be a simple question, but it won’t be, and Yuuri will dig himself into a whole of anxious energy, building each block out of a potential answer: _If you knew it was wrong._ Yuuri won’t be so sure then that he ever could have thought of loving Viktor as wrong. It’ll feel silly, like the caramelized fog of a Hollywood rom-com with the tragic veneer of a star too beautiful and too old to keep pretending to be twenty-two, alive, and not-in-love. Yuuri will sink into that feeling, let it press against his muscles and bite, and he will think to himself that his tragedy is that he, too, is now not young enough to believe that love is something that should only exist for other people.

He'll also be too smart by then to pretend that this is the first time, that Viktor won’t be but an extension of all the times he will have sat to prune the garden of a relationship, tending to it with care, watering it with patience, only to give away the bouquet to the person that comes _after_. It’s like he only exists in _before_. And, the words will itch at the tip of his tongue, trying to come out, because Yuuri will have spent – by then – close to five years providing other men with everything necessary to become the men they want to be without him, both in his job and in his private life. He will have always been the _boy before_ , the _boy gone by ten_ , the _boy that came and went_ , that led men already adults and still struggling to grow into their truth. He will have spent five years of putting on the mask of someone else’s name, the ritual of a fantasy only ever owned by a foreign mind, and, like a clown, forced to smile at the pleasure of another finding happiness at his expense.

 _‘Because I was tired of always giving birth to men that I knew would never stay,’_ he will not say, because he knows better than to romanticize his job into a life. He will know by then that no one can live off crumbs.

_‘It did not feel wrong because he felt like he was mine.’_

And that will really be the crux of the problem. Yuuri will not meet Phichit’s eyes. He will cry into his coffee. He will not say that somewhere along the way, Viktor’s _Yuuri_ was just Yuuri, and that meant Viktor felt like he could be Yuuri’s in return. Yuuri will not say that he has spent his whole life ambling in the world, feeling hungry to see Spring after too many Winters prolonged to build a fortress of cold, of insufficient love.

.

Viktor’s _Yuuri_ is unlike any character Yuuri has played for Lilia. He wanders into the party behind Yakov, holding tight to the briefcase he’s been given for the night with a backstory and a dream. So, he plays into his new skin, taking a couple glasses of champagne before he makes home of a corner and watches. No one seems to notice that there’s a drunk in the corner, just leaning into the shadows.

Slowly, as people retreat into their formalities and leave, Yuuri takes notice of Viktor Nikiforov chatting to his assistant, and Yuuri stumbles over, making sure to knock their shoulders together as he goes: “Oops, sorry,” he says with a giggle, making sure their eyes meet when Viktor holds him steady by his elbows, “sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay. Are you alright?” he asks, something soft and curious blossoming in his eyes. Yuuri thinks of sun storms. He’s always heard of them, like a sci-fi fairytale of destruction that hits pause on the world before it implodes. _You must be the sun_ , he thinks, and doesn’t say, because that’s something Michael would say, not Yuuri, _because your smile lights up my world._ “You look like you’ve had a little too much to drink.”

“Oh no,” Yuuri says, barely touching the side of his head, “I’m just. I’m feeling a little faint, s’all. It happens sometimes, when I’m in big crowds? I just get really anxious; I was hoping for a quiet spot, but a group took over my corner so now I’m homeless.”

Viktor nods, “it is getting stuffy in here.”

Yuuri nods, showing off his collarbone as he stretches to whisper close to Viktor’s ear, and he can feel, more than see, the flicker that sparks in Viktor’s eyes, like a puff of air bursting: “And, can I tell you a secret? I don’t even know what this party is for. Like, I was just told to be here, but I don’t even know who is the host and I think to have lost my client.”

“Your client?” Viktor steps back, gulping audibly. There’s a minute in which Yuuri thinks he should turn back, that this is a bad idea. He’s not sure what – deep in his gut – tells him to reconsider, like he’s been in this moment in time before and knows it will turn out wrong. He wants so badly to grab a drink from the nearest waiter and pull Viktor into the balcony and tell him, “you are worth real love; find new friends and run.” But, this is his job.

“Yes,” Yuuri says and lifts his briefcase, wiggling his eyebrows, “I was told to bring this.”

Viktor’s eyes flash with curiosity, and he rests a hand on Yuuri’s elbow. It’s a light touch, already steering him away from the party.

“What is that?”

“Not something I can show you out here,” he whispers, letting his long lashes brush over Viktor’s cheek. Butterfly kisses are Yuuri’s expertise.

.

During a private jet ride to Tokyo, Viktor will tell him, months later, that he thought Yuuri was a corporate spy, that his bag that night had had a camera or something equally inane, and Yuuri will laugh and call him paranoid. They’ll kiss. Yuuri will tackle Viktor to the seat, roll his hips, and help him forget.

“Corporate spy,” he’ll say, winking, “can I be a naughty stewardess instead? Come on, Viktor, I want to join the mile-high club.”

And he will, without telling Viktor that he read from his file about the dream he told his best friend Christophe about taking someone in his private jet and fucking them in the hallway. Yuuri will, at least, pretend to have enough decency for them both to push his pants down in the bathroom and present his ass, like he’s a horse on show. (And when they’re done, Yuuri will mention the comparison, making Viktor laugh until he cries.) He’ll take Viktor’s shaking hands and settle them on his hips and say, “come on, Vitya, put your big cock inside me,” and try to lie to himself that he hasn’t already fallen in love with a man who would so lovingly press a kiss between his shoulders before dropping to his knees to press his tongue to the inside of his cheeks and keep digging into his anus until he’s coming fast and hard against an airplane sink.

.

It happens like this: Yuuri follows Viktor into what he thinks is a guest bedroom, admiring the sleek lines of a room too lavish to show excess. Yuuri is sure Viktor must have hired the best decorators in the business to Feng Shui the room with carefully curated pieces – a rug from Pakistan, a painting from Cambodia, a wooden statue from Haiti. There’s a dog bed in the corner. It’s so large and fluffy, it looks more like a giant’s pillow. That’s when he realizes this is probably Viktor’s bedroom. Yuuri has never been in a place so barren that it almost feels unlived.

Music filters from the outside. It’s smooth jazz. Yuuri wishes he had a glass of wine.

“What’s in the briefcase,” Viktor says, doesn’t even bother asking as he gives Yuuri his back to uncork a glass bottle with whiskey. “Well, come on, pull it out.”

Yuuri shrugs, getting down on his knees to start setting up the pole. The moment he takes out the first part of the base, Viktor whirls around. Yuuri looks up, all big eyes and parted lips to look innocent. He is innocent, though. This is only his job.

“What is that?” Viktor gasps, practically downing the glass in his hand.

“It’s a pole,” Yuuri chirps, proud as he returns to piecing together the base’s triangles until he has half a pie in front of him. The floor is a little unsteady thanks to the rug, but he should be fine. Yuuri has danced in worst environments. A bedroom feels safe.

“No, I see that, but why do you have a pole in your briefcase?” Viktor gapes, slowly lowering himself down onto the bed. He looks so _shook_ that Yuuri almost wants to rest his hands on Viktor’s shoulders to anchor him.

“Because this is my job,” Yuuri furrows his brows, blinking, “surely you knew that right? – What did you think I had in here? I should be ready in just a few minutes. The set-up is always a pain, but I promise it’ll be worth it!”

“I—No!” Viktor squeaks. His cheeks light up with a bright red blush, and Yuuri studies him, thinking that Viktor is probably the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. _A man so beautiful I cried,_ he thinks, and remembers that’s Celeste. That’s not Viktor’s Yuuri, so he keeps his mouth shut, hands moving fast as he finishes setting up the base and rapidly snaps the cylinder together. “I did _not_ know that. Why is there a stripper in my party? I mean, you can stop. No, seriously, I’m not your client so—”

“But it’s ready,” Yuuri pouts, pulling out his cellphone to get his music ready. There’s something appealing about Viktor, eyes blown as he watches Yuuri crawl across the floor to rest his palms on his knees, “And I’ve been paid already, so think of it as a free show. Lord knows you’ve been spending a lot of money over at Shanta’s. A free show is the least I can do.”

“What?” Viktor whispers, breathing hard, “I haven’t. I mean. How do you—”

“I obviously wasn’t your type,” Yuuri whispers, slowly slipping off his tie. He follows Viktor’s eyes as they caress the line of his fingers and the fall of the piece of cloth. It feels like cheating, leveraging what has been written on a piece of paper for him to exploit. It’s like digging with a map. _X marks the spot,_ he thinks, wishing he could take a picture of the way Viktor’s eyes turn hard. Yuuri has seen want blossom in the eyes of his clients. He’s never seen desire so thick it burns. “But it’s hard to ignore the gorgeous guy handing out twenties like he’s just robbed a bank. Did you? Rob a bank?”

“No,” Viktor looks ashamed. “I’ve never even taken a cookie from the cookie jar before dinner.”

“You’re so squeaky clean,” Yuuri giggles, “it’s so cute. So. You’re okay with the show or should I pack up?”

“Do you really want to dance for me?” Viktor asks. His voice is so soft, almost breakable. Yuuri recognizes the signs of deep-rooted depression, like a familiar pit he revisits every so often in the comfort of other people’s beds. He wonders if he should run right now, tell Lilia, _I couldn’t do it. He needs a therapist, not an escort._ But Yuuri, too, has his own monsters. So, he follows the map and finds the softness of Viktor’s lips, like a pillow asking Yuuri to make him into a bed to rest. He considers his response carefully. It feels like anything he says could blow Viktor away.

Yuuri pushes up from Viktor’s knees, leveraging himself on his thighs to whisper against his lips, “has no one ever told you they wanted to dance for you?”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever even wanted to date me,” Viktor shrugs. Yuuri has a tough time believing this is true.

“Yeah, well, I want to do more than just dance for you,” Yuuri smiles, pulling away to kiss Viktor’s cheek. He saunters back towards the pole, peeling off his coat as he goes, hips wiggling from side to side. He stops to bend down and hit play, synth-pop sounds rolling through the room. He hooks his leg around the pole, taking one tentative step to test the steadiness of the base. When it doesn’t collapse on his weight, he takes a moment to strip off the rest of his clothes, dropping his pants to kick the away and unbuttoning his shirt: _Guys my age don’t know how to treat me._ _Guys my age don’t know how to treat me._ He looks down, wriggling his eyebrows at Viktor.

“Wow,” Viktor rests both hands over his mouth when Yuuri finally mounts the pole. Yuuri wonders if he’s referring to the first move or to Yuuri’s thong.

The pole is shaky under his hands, but he pulls himself into a reverse grab. With each spin, satisfaction continues to burrow in his chest. Viktor is the perfect audience, easily entertained and surprised by everything, and Yuuri wonders what kind of places he’s been hiding out in – probably shady establishments where he could hide in the shadows and just throw a couple of bills for a lap dance. Yuuri has seen those places, full of bodies eager to roll and undulate onto a pole. Sometimes there’s clumsy finesse, the impressive nature of bodies to adapt and become resilient in the face of need. It’s usually all spins and hip shimmies, though. In comparison, Yuuri is doing a literal superman move.

His hand stretches out. His body is taut with the tension of his muscles pretending he can break gravity.

“That’s amazing!” Viktor whispers.

At some point, he claps.

Yuuri laughs, head thrown back as he walks around the pole.

“What’s that one called?” Viktor asks at one point, amazed at the sight of Yuuri stretched upside down with the pole between his legs and his arm bent outward. “It’s like a parabola!”

“Close,” Yuuri chuckles, bending his body back even more, “this is a rainbow.”

“It’s beautiful,” Viktor nods to himself. He has his phone between his hands. Yuuri believes him and throws him a wink. “What’s this one? You really like being upside down, huh?”

“The sexy flexy! And it’s not that I like it, so much as I was already almost upside down so it was an easier transition,” Yuuri grins. The song has long ended, melting into another. He slowly slips back down to the floor. His feet flex when they feel the rug beneath again. He rubs at his arm, feeling a little unsteady now that he’s back on the ground.

Viktor stands, slipping off his sweater to show off a crisp button-up. He hands it to Yuuri. It’s a sweet offering and Yuuri slips it on. Viktor is taller than he is, making his sweater reach the beginnings of his thighs. The fabric is soft, like a kiss against his skin, and he locks eyes with Viktor as he says, “thanks.”

“I,” Viktor looks towards the door. Yuuri can hear as the party winds to an end. “I should go say my goodbyes.”

Yuuri nods, inching on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Viktor’s lips.

“I’ll wait for you,” he licks his lips.

Viktor steps back, “Y—you will? Okay. Yeah, okay..."

. 

“Yuuri?” Phichit will ask him. Yuuri will still not have a good enough answer. He’ll lie.

“I guess because it seemed he was already so broken, I couldn’t do any more damage,” Yuuri will shrug. It will be a dismissive move. But Yuuri will know better: He’ll remember what it was like that first night when he waited on Viktor’s bed, fingers trying to pull nervously at the big sweater to feign modesty. It would be trick only for one night, because when Viktor had come to him, sober from the experience of pretending to care for business contacts that left him empty, he’d given a shaky breath and looked at Yuuri in such a way that he suddenly did feel the diffidence of the moment.

“So, you’re going to tell him, right?”

Yuuri will look at the ring on his finger. His phone will ring. He’ll pick up.

“ _Yuuri?_ ” he’ll hear Viktor say, voice so full of tenderness that it blankets over him with the brand of forgiveness he has not asked for and, as such, does not yet deserve. Viktor will ask him to come home; he’ll tell him he’s all alone now, that the meeting with the Board of Directors did not go well because they want Yuuri to go through a background check and a prenup. “ _A prenup, Yuuri! I was so angry._ ” – And Yuuri will simply tell him that they’re looking out for Viktor’s best interest, that Yuuri doesn’t mind signing a prenup, because all he wants is Viktor, not his money.

Phichit will listen, shaking his head. Yuuri will never have felt the judgement of his friend like in that moment.

“Viktor, I’ll be home soon, okay?” he’ll say. “I love you.”

But he won’t go home.

 **TBC –** Okay, I lied to ya’ll. They bang, but you don’t get to see it until next chapter! Because I need us to switch to Viktor’s third-person POV. Sorry.


End file.
